Dear Jon,

I hope this letter finds you well.  I’m just writing to tell you thank you for being such a great influence in my life. Yes, even now, so many years later you are….well, Now. Now finds me living happily in New York working for a start-up and enjoying my life.  I think of you often and remember your cologne (the feeling–not the name or smell). You smelled like: Daddy, brother, friend, lover–you were a combination I have always cherished in a man.

I hear you are teacher now. You always were. I’ve brought you into the present because I there is more of you that I want to share with me and I find the past is so not now and now is where I am.  I’m wondering how you are.

Baby-sitting is the only way to fly. When Binda goes out with Brian, I get to focus on their baby. I’m given responsibility. I get to be a parent for an evening.
It’s really all anyone needs. There’s no science to it. Only a watchful, loving eye; all the latest and greatest infant accountrements from Albee Baby; top of the line forumula. Instead of reading to the baby I ask the baby. Ask anything, anything at all. They will not answer. But chances are they will listen.

A little every day is a lot of leverage:

One thumbs up for each hello. A new sentence said in German or French. An idea or an expression of appreciation. A couple of sit-ups or push-ups. Watching some pigeons poking at the sidewalk. All of this is making progress. The power of compound interest. The most powerful word in that previous sentence is interest. I am interested in you, pigeons. From my 14th floor window, you roost on the ledge and leave when you want. You get to to do what you want. Membership has its upside. Flocks of you. The lonesome pigeon. Your life is as cozy as being a nine year old on a lazy summer day or as industrious as climbing a tree. It’s all productive for you, pigeon.

And yet somehow they ended up getting married. I love that. I love that two people who got into funny fights at museums and restaurants and a couple of baptisms ended up together. With children.

That says a lot about how people can change or grow or evolve.
I’m trying to think about things I didn’t like or people I fought with who I ended up liking–loving.

I can only think of one thing. A coconut Pepperidge Farm cake. I didn’t like them when I was a kid because it was my mother’s go-to cake when it was my birthday. She liked baking but she thought this cake was prettier. Smaller, more tasty.

I would have preferred hers. In fact, didn’t I mention it several birthdays ago.

Binda used to bake for Brian. Now Brian bakes for Binda.
All of their children get homemade cakes.

I baked a Bundt cake. Binda Bundt and Brian Bundted. But when I Bundt you can’t put it down. I don’t want to be unput downable. I want people to stop me. To put me down and  ignore me. That is real freedom. Because then you can do anything you want. No one will notice. It’s the only price you pay for being ignored.

Dear Binda,

The way you make it sound, it’s as if Nutella is flying off the shelves. And maybe you’re right. I went to my corner grocery story–you know the one with the crowds–and found one lone jar. There was something sad about it. And me. Together, we make an interesting pair. And so do you and I. We’re not married. We’re not in love each other. Just best friends.

Nutella provides so many simple solutions in a jar. And it isn’t just me. Lots of business are taking up the hazlenut cream craze. They are putting it their swag at conferences. Nutella-filled ink pens. Nutella name tags (with illegible names, you can imagine)

I was at a barbecue in Brooklyn last weekend and met a baker standing at the grill who mentioned, in passing, whose company makes gigantic Nutella weights–barbells filled with them. The videos of people lifting and eating them has gone viral.

What I’m getting at here, is that some solutions start out small and turn into big to-dos. Now we have Nutella rehab clinics in Arizona.

I just long for the simple days of when you and I, Binda, just lazed around at your apartment and dabbed the stuff on cheekbones to give us a “bronzed” look or rubbed into our elbows to make them supple, while we sat watching a long-awaited season of The Sopranos. Those were the good ole days.

Now we find ourselves worried about our next fix. Which isn’t likely given that I just bought the last jar in the world. Heh-heh.

You said it wasn’t supposed to be. It can be sometimes. But it’s everything else all the time. It’s even time…consuming. Time-bending. It’s all about timing.

You sent me a section of singer Dionne Farris to listen to. You told me only to listen to sections “2:10-2:44” on Youtube.

“You will feel like you’re soaring,” you said, if I listened that section.

Well I did listen. And I did soar. Soaring alone isn’t what I want.
“But it’s everything,” you said. “It’s everything.”

I’m not everything. But I am soaring.

Dear Binda,

My boyfriend asked me to please remove my clump of hair from the edge of the tub. He did say “Please.” and “Love of my Life.” and those starter comments that always means I’ve done something wrong.

And to my defense, I usually pick up those clumps and drop it into the trash before I leave the shower. But this one time I didn’t.

Later, when he leaves for work, I start crying a bit. But it isn’t about him asking me about my hair clump or the fact that I’m losing about 100 strands during my showers. It’s that you once told me that I would come to appreciate these moments. And I do. But crying seems to be the only way to appreciate them.

So my question to you is: Am I doing this right?

Your answer astounded me. You told me to shut up about it and kiss and hug him when he walks through the front door. It’s always your answer for everything, isn’t it?

Later that morning, I went into the bathroom and noticed the clump of hair was gone. He’d removed it. I appreciate that.

Goddamn you, Binda.

Dear Binda,

You once slept until noon. You called in a panic, thinking you had missed something. You didn’t have kids then, otherwise they would have woken you up.

So it was up to me to tell you that nothing happened. I just woke up and stretched, pissed, exercised, showered, read a Mary Higgins Clark novel and thought about doing laundry and then thought about later that evening, about where we were going and what we would wear.

That’s all you missed. You said it was a lot you missed. I liked that. And that you said you’d missed me.

Now it’s my turn to sleep in late and I’m calling you now to find out the latest updates. Tell me everything.

Dear Binda,

I never thought you were good at baking. We talked about this before, so you’re not offended, I hope. But you are a good Molder. Your latest creations awed me. I’m lying flat on my bed, looking up at the whirring ceiling fan, still in awe.

Your children are so well-behaved. I’ll give you credit. I know Josh left you to such things. You’re doing so well. Especially with Katrina. She keeps saying please and thank you. She’s teaching me to say those things. Which means you are teaching me.

Thank you. And yes, please, let me have another one of your flat, hard, spread out, lackluster chocolate chip cookies, please.

P.S. Did I say molder? I meant Mother.